Resistance
by NinjaMatty
Summary: AU-ish - Ned/Fem!Can - Sometime during a ten-year war, siblings Alfred and Mathilda find a wounded soldier buried underneath a pile of dead bodies. They take him back to their camp on a whim. Little do they know that they might have found the key to stop the war.
1. Chapter 1

_Please keep in mind while reading that English is not my first language and that nobody proofread this text._

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She hadn't expected to see such carnage. She knew there had been a mighty battle fought on this field, yet knowing and seeing were two different things. Her stomach lurched and had she not clenched her teeth, she would have thrown up on her brand new leather boots. Something must have shown on her face, because her brother looked at her worriedly. She tried to school her expression, but it was hard. She bet her skin had turned an unattractive greenish colour.

The field that had once been covered in grass and colourful flowers had turned to mud. Countless of bodies laid in the mire, most of them so disfigured it was hard to believe they had once been humans. The stench of blood and death-loosen bowels was almost overpowering. Already, the crows were blackening the sky like one giant cloud announcing death.

They trudged the killing ground carefully, trying not to stomp on some body parts. It was almost a lost cause. Canons had blasted off limbs everywhere. There seemed to be no whole bodies in that particular corner of the field. She saw blood, entrails, guts and skin, but it felt as if she couldn't get the whole picture. These fragments didn't meet to make a human being in her mind, and she was kind of grateful to it. She probably would have thrown up despite her best efforts or, God forbids, fainted. She shivered from head to toe and hugged her jacket closer to her body. The weather was fairly warm, yet she felt cold all over.

She had no idea how long they walked ankle-deep in gore before they found one person still alive. Her brother saw a twitch in a pile of bodies, and they found a man underneath, covered in blood but still breathing. He must have been shielded from the last attack by those dead bodies. Yet his breathing was laboured and wheezy and it was hard to tell if the blood on him was his or someone else's.

They flipped him on his back and she bent over, checking for a pulse. It was there, faint but stubborn. She checked the man over rapidly, assessing the visible wounds. His clothes were torn, revealing some bruises and scratches, but nothing life-threatening. The only worrying wound was a gash above the man's right eye some three or four inches long. It covered the right side of his face in a horrible crimson mask and marred his light brown hair.

''He's still alive. We have to take him back with us to heal him.''

''Mathilda, he's an enemy. We can't nurse our enemies...!''

''Don't be like that, Alfred,'' she snapped, violet eyes hardening. ''His countrymen have been massacred for no reason. Don't you think it would be even more damning to our soul to let him die here?''

Alfred snarled and crossed his arms. Mathilda could see her brother wanted to argue but didn't dare to. Finally, Alfred heaved a sigh and crouched beside the wounded man. ''Fine, we'll carry him back to our encampment. But you will care for him. He'll be your responsibility. Understood?''

Mathilda nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. ''Understood.''

Carrying an unresponsive body however was easier said than done. The wounded man was tall and big, taller and bigger than the two siblings attempting to drag him out of the blood bath. Since he was unconscious, he couldn't help at all by trying to keep his footing or tightening his hold around their neck. Alfred suggested more than once that they just abandon the deadweight amongst his peers, but Mathilda stubbornly refused to. She was rarely hard-headed and would usually yield easily, but right now she seemed quite stubborn about this wounded stranger. Was she feeling guilt about the whole massacre? She shouldn't, really. Mathilda wasn't a fighter; she was a healer. She'd never killed anything bigger than a spider in her whole life. Perhaps the whole fighting was starting to take its toll on her however and that she'd feel better about at least rescuing one poor wounded bastard.

With much huffing and puffing, they finally managed to drag the wounded man back to their camp. The sentries standing on each side of the large door of the wooden palisade looked startled at seeing them more or less carrying what appeared to be a dead body; a dead body wearing the enemy livery furthermore. Both blond young people were covered in gore from boots to belt after trudging on the killing field for so long. They smelled of death, emptied bowels and blood. Their faces were pale in light of the recent killing.

Of course, being who they are, nobody stopped them. All soldiers, healers, camp followers they met stared at them with wide eyes. The medical tent was unfortunately situated at the other side of the camp, forcing them to carry the body through ranks upon ranks of their soldiers. Speculations erupted as soon as they were out of earshot, everybody wondering what was happening and why an enemy soldier was being brought in. Nobody had heard they were to take prisoners.

Finally, the greyish canvas of the medical tent appeared at the end of a muddy path. By then, they were both sweating and grunting under the deadweight of the wounded man. Alfred felt all his small aches and pains reawakened and he mourned the wasted time that could have been used to bathe in warm water. He knew better than to voice his annoyance however. Mathilda might not be a soldier like him, but she had infinite amount of energy when it came to healing the wounded and she never complained about having to spend the whole night up by the bedside of a dying man.

The flap of the tent was opened for them by a wide-eyed soldier who stood sentry. As soon as they stepped inside, their nostrils were assaulted by the smell of blood and unwashed bodies. In this tent alone perhaps one hundred wounded soldiers laid on narrow cots, some dying, some already dead while a healer's back was turned, some recuperating after a sustained injury. Amongst the neat lines of beds the healers worked tirelessly. Helpers – mostly scared-looking children – carried rolls of bandages, basins of clean water and glass bottles of alcohol and poppy wine.

The wounded man was carried by the two siblings to an empty cot at the end of the last line of beds. It stood near the oily canvas wall that flapped gently in the breeze. Here, the air smelled just a tiny less like death and a bit more like damp earth. With some effort, they lowered the man to the cot. The big body looked too large for such a narrow pallet.

Alfred straightened with a groan. He pressed his fists on the small of his back. The large sword in its scabbard belted to his side clanked noisily against the wooden leg of the cot. He barely registered it.

"So, are you going to be alright with an enemy soldier in your tent?" he asked his younger sister with something akin to worry in his voice.

"Of course," Mathilda answered distractedly. She was already at work, checking the man over for other wounds than the one on his forehead. "He's going to be far too weak to be any trouble."

"But what of when he grows stronger?"

The younger of the two sighed and looked up at her brother with some exasperation mingled with deep respect in her purple eyes. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Alfred. I won't have this man shackled to his bed in fear he might get up to try to strangle someone."

Despite everything, Alfred couldn't stop a smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. He patted his sister on the back. "Dear Mattie, always so nice to broken people!" Still smiling, he scratched at his straw-coloured hair before shrugging. "Alright then, I'll trust you on this one. I have to go now. Gotta report on what we saw there anyway." His blue eyes hardened ever so slightly. "But if this bastard gives you any troubles, I'll see my sword sheathed through his throat."

Mathilda opened her mouth to say something, but Alfred was already turning his back. She watched her older brother walk out of the tent, head raised high and broad shoulders stiff with pride. Dear Alfred, always looking out for her like a mother hen. Mathilda's smile couldn't be kept at bay even if she had wanted it to. Nineteen years of this, and it still made her feel ridiculously warm on the inside to know her older brother cared so much for her.

The quiet buzzing of her surroundings finally managed to bring her back to reality. She stared for a second or two at the wounded man lying on the cot in front of her. The enemy solider hadn't move an inch, still unconscious probably due to the blow received to the forehead.

Mathilda sighed and removed her coat. Despite the cold outside, the inside of the tent was warmed by many packed bodies. In a few minutes of working she'd probably be sweating too. Yet she wished nonetheless for the more comforting warmth of a wood fire. It would be better for the wounded too; it would chase away the humidity. A lot of soldiers, especially the older ones, had been complaining of stiff joints after spending a few days in the medical tent. Sadly, there was very little she could do for them except have them rub their aching joints with warm alcohol.

She began working, pushing her thoughts at the back of her mind. Her hands worked precisely and gently. She hated those healers who were brisk with the unconscious patients because they couldn't feel pain. First of all, with a pair of sharp scissors, she cut the wounded man's clothes so they could more easily be removed. It wasn't an easy task; the man wore thick clothes due to the cold and some parts of them were hardening with drying blood. She cut through the coat sleeves from wrist to shoulder and pulled on the torn fabric to remove it. It was of good quality, she noticed absentmindedly, the kind of material no ordinary soldier could afford. She put it aside in case it might be salvaged later on. Under the brown coat the clothes were covered in blood. Fresh blood. There was a gash on the right thigh, perhaps five inches long but not deep enough to have severed the artery. Other such gashes were found all over the man's body. None were life threatening, but the blood had to be staunched rapidly.

The most serious wound was the one the man had sustained on the forehead. Blood still trickled from it in a thin rivulet, coating the right side of the face a light red. The pillow in its white pillowcase was already stained with it. Mathilda waved to one of the kid helpers. The boy came running eagerly and listened to the orders given. With a bow, he departed to fetch the needed items. Mathilda had a few seconds to breathe. The air in the tent was disgustingly humid and warm. She was already sweating underneath her clothes and her blond hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead. She wiped it away from her brow as best she could with the back of her forearm, keeping her bloody fingers away from her face. Was it just her imagination or had the man stirred ever so slightly? For a panicky second, Mathilda wished her patient would remain unconscious. The words of warning her brother had said came back to mind and quite suddenly she realised that having brought an enemy soldier in the medical tent might not have been the smartest thing she had done. Then she looked at the man, really looked at him; taking in his injuries, the paleness of his skin, the slackness of his body, and decided that enemy or not, wounded people had to be seen to. Alfred would scoff at that, they all would scoff at that and call her a big softie, but there was no way she could simply turn a wounded man away. She had sworn vows of taking care of the wounded and the sick. Nowhere it that long speech she had learned by heart had it been mentioned that some people should be denied physicking.

The boy came back with the required items, snapping Mathilda out of her reverie. The objects were placed upon a small wooden table and the boy was sent to help someone else. Mathilda then took a white rag, dipped it in the copper basin of lukewarm water, wrung it, then proceeded to gently clean the wound on the man's forehead. The blood had not yet dried and was easily washed away. She then put the now-stained rag in the water which turned almost immediately a pinkish colour. She leaned in closer to the patient to examine the wound. As she had first feared, this one would need stitches. Better hurry while the man was still unconscious. With a new clean rag, she cleaned the wound a second time but with warm alcohol. The man didn't even twitch, but his breathing seemed a tiny bit more laboured. Mathilda put the foul-smelling rag away and picked up a semicircular needle with a silk suture already threaded through it. With a sure hand, she started working on a simple interrupted stitch. It was the easiest and the most secure for this type of wound and would most likely leave a smaller scar than any other types of stitching.

Once the stitching was done, it was only a matter of cleaning the rest of the wounds on the soldier. As she did, Mathilda tried to imagine how he must have gotten those. Clearly, he must have been hit only by debris since the wounds were quite insignificant. The other bodies she had seen on the field had been torn to bloody pieces. Something – or maybe someone – must have shielded this man from the worst of the explosion.

Once all the wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, Mathilda took a few steps back to eye critically her work. The man would live, that was certain, unless there was some undetectable interior wound. She doubted it. Already the enemy soldier's skin was regaining some colour due to the stopping of the blood loss (and also probably due to the stupid heat of the tent). It was too early to tell if infection might have seeped into one of the wounds however. Someone would have to keep a close eye on the man for the next twenty-four hours.

Satisfied with her work, Mathilda took the folded light blanket from the foot of the narrow cot, unfolded it with a shake and covered the man with it. It was mostly for decency's sake really; most of the man's clothes had been cut away, leaving him only in his undershirt and undergarments. Now, time and rest would finish the job. Perhaps a bit of poppy wine at the beginning of the recovery to ease the pain. Judging from the wound to the forehead, the man will most likely suffer from severe headaches for a long time, or even all his life.

There was nothing more to do at the moment but fill the ledger keeping track of the wounded people brought in. It was a tedious affair but it had to be done. Every inch of suture, every needle, every rag, every roll of bandages, every copper basin, had to be counted. Each patient's name had to be written down alongside their ailments, their wounds and the remedies provided. Everything had to balance out at the end of the month so only the exact number of needed supplies could be provided. With their funds running so low, most of the remaining money had to be directed towards the soldiers and the fighting force. A huge sum had to be taken for food for humans and beasts. Uniforms and canvas tents had to be mended or replaced. Only then, when everything else had been resupplied were medical team's needs looked at. There had been entire months when they couldn't get the needed supply and had to tear bed sheets and old uniforms to turn them into bandages. Amongst the wounded soldiers, only those sure to be able to go back to the battlefield in a short while got good food. The others had to struggle on with what was left even if the weakest of them needed the best food possible in hope to mend.

Mathilda shook her head slightly, knowing these depressing thoughts would lead her nowhere. They had made due with what they were given so far, and they could continue. Mathilda was happy enough to use her own money to buy the supplies they needed anyway, and she was pretty sure what she had left of coins could see them through another year. After that, well… after that she'd have to find a new way to fund the medical team. She'd think of something, she always did.

Right, so now she had to fill the ledger. This paused a problem, she realised with mounting anxiety. Allied soldiers were mostly all known by their names by someone else in the army and so could be identified. The man Alfred and she had just brought in was known to nobody. He was still unconscious so Mathilda couldn't ask for a name.

As if they had a mind of their own, her eyes were attracted to a piece of fabric lying on the ground. She took it up, and she realised it was the brown jacket the man had worn when he had been found amongst the pile of bodies. Blood spots covered it, it was frayed despite its good quality and the hem was full of holes. There were some kind of insignias on the shoulders of the jacket, but Mathilda had no idea what they meant. Were they some kind of indicators of a rank? Maybe. Steeling her nerves, she slipped one hand into one of the pockets of the jacket. Her groping fingers found nothing but dust. The other pockets got the same treatment. She found a half empty pack of foreign cigarettes. She could read the letters on it but couldn't understand the meaning of the words. There was also a book of matches with two matches remaining. She had heard of these weird objects but it was the first time she saw them with her own eyes. Apparently, fire appeared when one of the matches was struck against something rough. It was hardly believable; the match was thinner and shorter than her pinky finger. How could something so small make fire? Nonetheless, she put it into the pocket of her trousers for later observation. Finally, in the last inside pocket of the coat she found a piece of folded paper. The paper was rough and thick beneath her fingers and there was a ring of blood on the upper left side of it. The blood, dried, had turned a dark brownish colour. She let the jacket fall back down beside the cot and carefully unfolded the piece of paper. It seemed to be some kind of letter written in the same weird language that was on the pack of cigarettes. She squinted at the words as if narrowing her eyes would provide her with the necessary knowledge to understand them. It did nothing of the sort, sadly. She could go to a translator, of course, but she felt that spreading the news that an enemy soldier was lying unconscious in the medical tent wasn't such a good idea. Knowing the cruelty of men, she didn't doubt that one soldier or another would have no qualms about walking into the tent and killing an unarmed enemy soldier just for wearing the wrong colour of jacket. She frowned at the letter. This was a letter, she was sure of it. She could see a date written in an elegant feminine hand at the top right corner. The numbers were understandable. It was dated almost three months ago. So, if these people followed the same writing code, it meant that the second line should mention the name of the addressee. It read: geacht Klaas. Urgh, that didn't tell her much. Could it be translated as 'dear Klaas'? It sounded a bit like that. But was Klaas a name though? If so, it sounded oddly like the word 'class'.

She sighed. Whatever, the man would be registered under the name Klaas even if it wasn't a real first name. It sounded quite foreign, but a lot of their soldiers were from the colonies or even from foreign countries. She doubted someone would ask about this particular one just because of his weird-sounding name.

Mathilda folded back the letter before slipping it underneath the wounded man's pillow. It wouldn't do for it to be discovered after all. Her business done here for the moment, she gathered the objects she had needed to tidy them away and to fill the ledger on her way out.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the long delay before posting this chapter. I had first planned to update this story once a week, but I'm not sure I'll be able to. Thank you to everybody who has taken the time to read the first chapter! I appreciate it a lot!

I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

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"I hate the rain…" Alfred muttered. His back rested against the wooden pole holding up the canvas of his own tent. There was a flap of it above his head protecting him from the rain without hindering his view of this outside world. He had a lit cigarette dangling between his lips and its acrid smoke swirled in the still air. "If it doesn't stop soon, it will slow our progress."

Standing beside her brother, hugging her jacket closer to her body to ward off the chill, Mathilda sighed. "Progress? Are we to leave soon?"

The man shrugged before breathing in the smoke of his cigarette. "It feels like it. Father says we're almost at the capital. He thinks the legion we just destroyed was the last one posted before it."

"Are you sure? I really doubt the Dutch king would leave his capital undefended."

"That's what I told the old man, but you know he doesn't listen. We're to press forward as soon as we've replenished our supplies. In a fortnight I'd say."

"Replenish our supplies…" Mathilda muttered bitterly. "He means robbing the poor villages around."

Alfred grinned. "What? Do you think he'd waste one of his precious coins if he can steal what's needed?"

"That doesn't make it right."

"I never said it did. You know I don't agree with his way of dealing with things, but there's nothing I can do about it." A pause. "He asked after you."

Immediately, as soon as she heard these words, Mathilda couldn't stop a shiver of fear. She hid it with a shrug. Had her father somehow learned about the enemy soldier resting in the medical tent and brought in because of her? That didn't seem likely. What were the odds, really? Mathilda had left the tent before midday and it was now after supper with the sun setting. There wasn't enough time for her father to go through all the ledgers his men had to record everything in (because he did go through them all somehow). The ledgers about the weapons and the food were far more important than the medical one. Had maybe her father inquired about his daughter to one of the other healers, and the healer had pointed out that weird stranger with the cut on his forehead?

"Why?" Mathilda finally managed to ask, throat dry. "Father never asks after me."

"You're his favourite and you know it. Yeah, he was kind of butthurt that you didn't choose the way of the sword like he wanted, but he's getting over it."

"That's not true. He's still angry about that. He says I've deprived the army of a good swordsman because of my foolish choice."

"That's _true_, I'm sure you would have been a good swordsman. However, he's angrier with me because I haven't gotten myself killed yet." Alfred grinned recklessly. "He can't believe his bastard is that tough."

The younger of the two siblings smiled slightly. "Well, I'm very glad that you are that tough, Alfred. Now, what did father want?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest. He asked the weirdest questions. Like if you looked like your mother or something. If the bastard deigned looking at you, he'd know it by himself."

"If I look like my mother?" Mathilda repeated, dumbfounded. "What kind of question is that?"

"Hey, don't ask, I don't know. I think you do, and that's what I told him. Then he switched the subject." Alfred leaned closer, his breath smelling of tobacco. "I'm pretty sure he's going nuts though." His light blue eyes glinted in the growing darkness. "And once it happens, I'll strike him down and stop this fucking war."

This time, Mathilda couldn't hide her shiver with a shrug. Alfred had just said something she had been praying for for the last ten years of her life. She just wanted their father to die so the war could be stopped. Otherwise, it would go on forever until the old man had conquered all the kingdoms of the continent. There was no stopping him otherwise. Not even old age had managed to slow him down a bit. He could still ride, fight and think like a much younger man. His commanding officers had been with him since the very beginning and were loyal to a fault. Nobody dared talk against the emperor because nobody was safe from an accusation of treason. Not even his children, especially not his children, could question his decisions. Alfred had tried many times and it was a small miracle that he still had his head attached to his shoulders.

"Don't speak like that," Mathilda murmured very softly, afraid to be overheard.

"I won't be able to stand that much longer," the older of the two admitted with gritted teeth. "All this senseless killing, it's making me sick."

Mathilda looked at her brother out the corner of her eye. Alfred had never been very sensitive, but he had never revelled in the killing of innocents. He was a very good fighter, but he longed for his skills to be of used against other skilled swordsmen, not against unarmed peasants. Mathilda reached out and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

"I know, I understand. Be strong, brother. I'm sure this will end sooner or later."

In the half dark, Alfred's face was difficult to read but his tense body was enough to reveal what he thought: he didn't think this would end soon. Something about the resolute set of his jaw indicated that he was sure he'd have to live like a slayer of innocents for the rest of his life. It broke Mathilda's heart to see her confident big brother so perturbed.

"Get a good night's sleep," the healer advised gently. "It will do you good and on the morrow your thoughts will be less dark."

"Yeah, or maybe I'll drink myself into a stupor so I won't have nightmares."

There was very little to add to that statement. Almost all soldiers drank themselves to sleep, especially after a hard battle. Liquor apparently blocked the bad dreams. Mathilda nodded, knowing it would be selfish to prevent her brother from doing the same. Not that it was safe to allow a soldier to be drunk; what if the camp was attacked? But right now, that seemed improbable. There were sentries, a ditch and a palisade protecting the camp after all.

"Good night, brother," she said softly before leaving the relative comfort of Alfred's tent.

Outside, the sun had almost completely set. The clouds of rain were being blown away by the rising wind. Winter was coming, Mathilda thought as she hugged his jacket closer to her body. She hated the winter campaigns where everybody was cold, miserable and sick. The marching was hard, the nights were painful and the fighting was agony. Sentries sometimes died of cold standing on their feet because they weren't allowed to light fires to keep them a bit warm. Toes froze in boots and fingers froze in gloves and had to be cut off. Noses ran, throats were sore, chests burned. The piling snow made it difficult to advance. Snow made everything difficult actually, even going from one's tent to the latrines.

As she walked, Mathilda looked up towards the clearing sky. The rain had mercifully stopped for the moment. Small white dots started to wink here and there against dark indigo. She recalled, with a bit of difficulty, how she had loved the winter when she had been young, before the war started ten years ago. She remembered how Alfred and she and the other children of the family had run about in the gardens filled with snow. Then war had been declared. The games had stopped. Children had been handed swords and had been required to become adults. Alfred had been twelve the first time he joined the foot soldiers. Mathilda had been deemed yet too young to be on the battlefield. At nine, she had been made to stay in the camp while her brother and his friends waged war against seasoned soldiers. When everything had been over, when the cries of wounded men and the clash of arms had stopped, she had helped the healers the best she could to patch up their soldiers. Never could she forget the haunted look she had seen in their eyes as she clumsily wrapped bandages around their wounds. _Never,_ she had sworn in her head, _never will I have that look in my eyes. Never will I take a life._

So far so good.

She hurried back to the medical tent, intending to have a look at her mysterious patient before retiring to her own tent for the night. She felt exhausted after trudging through the killing ground this morning, more mentally fatigued than physically but still she longed for the relative comfort of her own cot. The men and women she walked by nodded respectfully at her, but they didn't quite dare to talk to her. She was the emperor's daughter. What if she was as mad and as short-tempered as her father after all? The younger people thought that while the older ones had known her since she was a child and knew she didn't have an ounce of malice in her. She didn't mind, really. She didn't want to mingle with them. She was shy and she preferred the company of the people she knew.

Inside the medical tent, most of the healers had retired for the night. Three remained and would spend the night here in case one of the wounded men's conditions worsened or in case of an emergency. It was always the youngest healers stuck with the night watch, and Mathilda had spent more than one night up with the wounded. She kind of liked it; she liked the calm and peaceful atmosphere. She felt useful and needed when a man woke in the night, complaining about pain or simply asking for a glass of water.

Mathilda nodded to the two young men and one young woman who had been stuck with the night watch. She didn't know the men, but the woman had been a healer as long as she had been. Michelle was her name; she was dark skinned with black eyes and black long hair. She was sweet, kind, and patient. She knew when to be kind and when to be firm. She smiled at her but remained seated at her tiny wooden desk, filling her own ledger for the day. She feared the emperor more than she feared the enemy soldiers and spent hours filling her ledger before filling the official one that was given to the emperor for his inspection. She was terrified to make a mistake that would cost her her position or even her head. Mathilda smiled back before walking to the end of the last row of cots to see her patient.

The man was either unconscious or sleeping, it was hard to tell, but Mathilda guessed Michelle would have told her if something had happened with his patient. Could someone stay unconscious for so long anyway? With a blow to the head, it was hard to tell. Maybe the man had been paralysed or even plunged into a coma from which he'd never emerge. Mathilda sat on the small wood stool that stood beside the cot. She decided to spend some time here before going back to her own tent. Sleep would elude her at the moment she was sure of it. She still felt too strung up after her discussion with Alfred.

She had no idea how long she sat there. She must have dozed off sitting up (one got used to do such thing while spending the whole night up) because she startled awake. Her eyes scanned the tent but everything looked normal enough. The three healers were still sitting by their desk, reading or working or sleeping sitting up. All the patients appeared to be asleep, either naturally or drugged to ward off the pain.

Something grabbed her wrist. Mathilda jumped and a startled squeak escaped from her lips. She looked down to see a grubby hand holding her wrist. Wide eyed, she looked at her patient. The man – Klaas – was staring back at her with intent hazel eyes. His expression was hard to read; something between anger, pain and panic. The grip on Mathilda's arm tightened slightly, but the hand was too weak to be painful.

"H-hello," Mathilda began softly. "Please, don't worry. You're safe. You've been wounded, but we brought you back here. Do you remember anything?"

The man looked startled, as if he hadn't expected Mathilda to be capable of speech. He took back his hand as if he had been burnt. He looked around the tent, his eyes wide. His already pale face seemed to pale further. His whole body tensed. He sat up on his cot, wincing because of the pain but intent on his purpose.

"Lay back! You're too weak to sit up." But the man wasn't listening. Mathilda got to her feet, ready to stop her patient if he tried to get up. Cleary, the enemy soldier was panicking, probably wondering where he was. He knew that he wasn't amongst friends though, that could be read all over his face. Mathilda hesitated. "Klaas," she said, pronouncing the foreign name as best she could, "calm down."

Klaas looked up at her, surprised anew that this stranger would know his name. It seemed to soothe him a little. His broad shoulders sagged, but his eyes remained alert nonetheless.

"Where am I?"

This time, it was Mathilda's turn to be startled. "Y-you speak English?" she asked stupidly.

"Yes. Where am I?"

"In the medical tent in the emperor's camp. We do not wish to hurt you. You're not a prisoner, I promise."

She had no idea what triggered him, really. One second she was talking, the next he was on his feet, looming above her. His fists were clenched, his face was pale but his eyes shone with something like fear, his jaw was set and he was reaching for his belt. Mathilda knew instantly what he was reaching for; his sword. There was no sword at his belt of course, and it seemed to surprise him. However, Klaas didn't seem like the type of man to be deterred by such setbacks. He drew back his hand and would have punched her right on the nose if the three other healers hadn't jumped on him. They crashed atop the cheap cot that seemed to explode on impact. The two men struggled with the wounded one to pin him down while Michelle grabbed the man's hair, pulled on it to twist his head back and decanted the content of a small tumbler into his mouth. All the while, the man was struggling. For someone who had been unconscious so long and who had bled a copious amount of vital blood, he was still strong and nearly managed to shrug off the two healers holding him down.

All the while, Mathilda remained seated on her small stool, eyes wide in surprise and horror. She barely realised that she had nearly been punched in the face, and considering this man's strength, her nose would have been broken and a few teeth would have gone down her throat.

"C-careful with him!" was all she managed to say.

The poppy wine slipped between the man's teeth finally started to take effect. He slumped against the wooden remains of his cot, not quite unconscious yet. His muscles unknotted and he lay limp. The three healers got to their feet, sweating and looking confused by the turn of events. As one, they turned to Mathilda, seeking an explanation.

She had to lie. She couldn't sell this man out right now. "He was confused and thought he had been killed. I believe the shock of realising he was still alive was too much. He just needs a good night's sleep."

This was a common occurrence. Soldiers who had been wounded and left unconscious for a long while often woke up confused and scared, having been sure at the back of their mind that they had been done for. They rarely got up to punch a healer however, but they sometimes displayed aggressive behaviour. And so, the healers accepted her feeble explanation. Together, they found a cot to replace the one that had been destroyed by the fight. They laid the wounded soldier back on it carefully, mindful of his injuries. Klaas wasn't exactly passed out yet. He mumbled inaudibly under his breath, and Mathilda feared that he would say something in his weird tongue that would set off the healers. Luckily for the both of them, he kept his mumblings too low for anybody to hear.

Once everything was back in order, Michelle and the two other healers went back to their post. Mathilda knew however that they would keep a watchful eye on this patient should he wake up in a panic again. What if he tried to punch one of them then? Or what if he spoke in his weird tongue? Everybody had heard Dutch and they would recognize it right away (unless they thought it was German, which wouldn't be any better). She sighed and rubbed her face with her fingers, trying to think. The nearly-getting-punched-in-the-face event seemed to have drained the remainder of her energy. She wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep until the war was over. But if she succumbed to her laziness, her patient's life could be in danger.

She looked at the man – Klaas. His eyes were half shut, made hazy but the opiate that had been slipped down his throat. In a matter of minutes, he would fall asleep. But right now, his eyes were fixed on the canvas roof of the tent. In the candle light, it was hard to read his expression but he looked dispirited, as if he had given up. And who could blame him, really? He had just awakened in a tent situated in the middle of his enemy's camp, surrounded by enemy healers, only to be drugged. Mathilda found she could easily guess what he was thinking; that they'd probably kill him in his sleep to send him to one of these doctors who cut bodies open to look at their insides. (It had been a legend going around amongst enemy soldiers and one of the few that were sadly right.) Was it why he was fighting off the drug so fiercely? Was he afraid that if he fell asleep, he'd never awake again? Mathilda hated these horrible thoughts and hated even more to think of how frightened the poor soldier must feel.

And so, she leaned towards him and adjusted the blanket gently over his chest, mindful of his wounds. His eyes left the roof of the tent to slide sideways towards her. She smiled her best winsome smile.

"Everything will be alright," she said very gently. "Do not worry. Sleep, and in the morning you will feel better."

She didn't know if it were her words or the drug having an effect, but Klaas fell asleep promptly right after. She eased a heavy sigh of relief as her shoulders sagged. Don't slouch so much, her governess used to say and it seemed she could still hear the old woman's voice clearly. Nonetheless, keeping her back straight was too much of a hard work and she kept on slouching. She knew now that she couldn't simply leave the tent for the night. She didn't want her patient waking up again to make a scene. It was better for him to lay low and try to be inconspicuous. Punching healers in the face would be the opposite of inconspicuousness so she had to stay.


End file.
